Achilles dreamed, at least, he thought he was dreaming, either that or he had finally died and gone to hell. He was standing at the bank of the river Styx. What was flowing was not water, it was too viscous and more to the point, it was not clear. The thick, bubbly liquid gurgled. It was blood. On the far opposite bank stood dozens of people, all of them without faces. It was a gruesome sight, and he had seen more than his fair share of such thingss. If this was hell then he didn't want to be here.

It was warm, or maybe he was just nervous. Achilles wiped a large bead of sweat off his forehead. Strangely enough, his wounds were still there, three small gaping holes, almost in the shape of a three-petaled flower. But they did not ache, he poked a finger around the torn tissue, it was numb.

There wasn't a sun that he could see, but the sky seemed to be like the one on earth, clouds drifted across it, with one exception. It was not blue. Like everything else it had a reddish tint. Achilles watched as a small speck down the river started to approach him, growing larger and clearer, finally he could make out a shape. It was a boat.

It was funny, men go through entire life cycles, fearing this moment, when they were brought across the river by the boatman, into the mysterious and terrible realm of the dead. Frowning, Achilles fumbled for his pockets, but he was wearing his armour and those had no pockets. Then where was his boat fare? Had he not being properly sent? The lack of coins disturbed him. The boat grew nearer.

To his amazement, there were not one but two people on board. One was standing up with a long oar, rowing, the other was sitting down, seemed to be staring into the distance. Suddenly he recognized the man.

It was Paris.

Slowly, the boat swept to shore and Paris did not move a muscle. Achilles walked towards the boat, making a move to climb in. After all, if he was here, then wasn't he meant to cross this river?

The boatman stared at him and Achilles almost recoiled. The man did not have eyes, there were two gaping holes that were his sockets. But Achilles felt that he was been scrutinized, although logically the man could not see. The boatman said nothing.

"I- I do not have any money," Achilles stammered. He had dreamt of this moment for years, the guilt that he carried, for all the men that he had killed. Innocent men, people who never did him any harm. What would they do? Would they be sympathetic? Why would they be? But most importantly, would the boatman let him pass?

The man's gaze intensified. Paris stirred and finally turned around to look at him.

"It is not your time," he said simply.

"But," Achilles started, "I am here, aren't I?"

"Yes, but not to stay. Not yet." Paris sighed.

Achilles looked confused. He had led a simple life. Kill those who threatened you, there wasn't much to be confused about. He was a man who knew his intentions, and knew them well. But he was confused.

"You see, you are here because you think you are dead. But in truth, you are not. Unlike me." He looked sadly at the river.

"You are dead?" Achilles said in surprise, although he knew that the prince's presence with the boatman spoke volumes.

Paris nodded, "You should go, go before it's too late. Find her, find Briseis. Take care of her, live your life. Do great things, good things, make up for all the lives you have taken," Paris looked to the other side of the river, "look there, among those are many who perished under your sword, my brother Hector," he paused, "They will not forget. But go now, it is not your time."

Achille was still puzzled. But he had died, Paris had shot him with his arrows, hadn't he?

"Yes, my friend, that I have," the prince read his mind, "I regret it, for I had not meant to. The chance at revenge took over me. And I thought you were hurting my cousin. I did not know. Forgive me."

Achilles was silent. The silouette of Paris and the boatman were beginning to fade.

"Paris-"

"Love her, Achilles, find her. One more thing, tell Helen I love her, and retrieve my bow and arrows, give them to her. I will be seeing you." Paris's voice faded into the distance and the noise began.

There were sounds of screaming, of footsteps, of fire cackling. A face materialised in his mind, an innocent face framed with dark curls. Large brown eyes that stared deeply into his, the faintest scent of her perfume floated into his nostrils. With a jolt Achilles came to.

Oh how his head pounded, and his arrow wounds did indeed hurt. Like hell.

Achilles opened his eyes and for a moment thought he was in fact in hell, for the sky was tinged red. Then he realized that he was still lying in that courtyard, Briseis was of course, long gone. He tried to sit up, but gasped as searing pain tore at his stomach. With some difficulty he snapped off the arrow heads and pulled the shafts out.

He had to get out of there. He would be cremated, or even burned alive. The building to his right looked about to collapse. He was running out of time. He managed to stagger up, putting his weight on his sword. He could see no way out, at least not in his state. His ankle too, burned, and he realized the arrow was still imbedded in his flesh, cleanly through and bloody. He would worry about that later. Although he could not put any weight unto that foot, and with that went any hope of walking out of this hellhole.

A horse whinnied. With a start Achilles raised his head, he couldn't believe his luck. He could ride out of here! A white mare was trotting down the path, looking stricken. He didn't blame it. Achilles whistled and the horse obediently stopped. Perhaps it was glad to have a rider, to have someone guide it and reassure it.

Achilles gently stroked the creature's neck and whispered soothing words into its ear. Despite his wounds he still had his reflexes and agility with him. Those skills he would not lose. Slowly but surely swung his injured leg up the back of the horse, and with a swift kick he was upright on top of the creature's back.

Achilles rode, and did not look back. His strength was again faltering, making him realized just how human he was. He held on tight to the horse's mane and the next thing he knew, they were running straight through a burning gate. The sweltering heat did little to revive him, and no matter how he wanted to stay conscious, his brain refused to cooperate.

When he came to, Achilles, for a minute, had no clue where he was. After several disoriented moments he came to realized that he was by a river, although he still smelled smoke drifted from the burning city. He was limp against the horse, unwilling to move. Finally, with great difficulty he climbed off the mare, fell to the soft bed of grass, gritting his teeth against the pain. The horse sauntered off to get a drink.

He was very lucky that none of the arrows had seemed to pierce any vital organs, like his heart or lungs. Maybe luck, he thought, had nothing to do with it. For the first time in his life, he felt blessed by the Gods. He was thankful for his life. Love her. The words came to his mind, then he suddenly remembered his dream. Had it been a dream? It seemed so real. He shook his head slowly, trying to shake away the uneasiness.

His limbs felt like they weighed a ton, and the smallest movement, like the blink of his eyes, took more energy than he had. He breathed quick, shallow breaths, like someone who'd been underwater for a long time. He had probably inhaled a lot of smoke back in Troy, and his lungs needed to clean themselves. He coughed violently, and out came blood. His entire body felt stretched, like his muscles and bones didn't quite know how to work with each other any more.

The horse was back, grazing at the grass. It paused beside him and licked his face affectionately. Achilles closed his eyes, and felt his mind go blank, for a third time that day.

Briseis couldn't cry any more. She was done with tears. There was only so much water in her body. Now it was just grief, heart-wrenching grief that tore at her in waves. Achilles was dead. Paris was probably dead. He had led her underground to some sort of hidden tunnel and turned back to fight. She had no time to puzzle over the fact that she had never seen the secret escape route before, or had any idea that it had even existed. She was told to follow the tunnel until it led her back up to the surface, by then she would be by the river, and Helen and Andromache should be waiting.

She had rescued dozens of people with her, just as a good priestess should. She had been too busy to see to their comfort and safety that she had not have time for her grief. Now it had caught up with her. The others weren't surpised at all to her bursting into tears. They just assumed that she was sad about everything that had happened in the last few hours, and that she was sad about Paris. Helen was trying to be strong, but it was obvious that she was devastated in knowing that Paris might never come back.

It was the same way that she felt about Achilles, except she knew for sure that he was lost. She couldn't bare to think about him, but her mind wouldn't listen to her, and everything she saw, reminded her of him. She tried to busy herself to making sure that they made enough progress and stayed well hidden so the Greeks wouldn't be on their trail, but it was no use. She had sat by the river, when the night fell, weeping to herself, softly and quietly, and they knew better to disturb her. She needed to be by herself. To remember his every touch, every word, every look, every smile. She took an unsteady breath.

The moon was up, shining and casting a reflection on the water, glimmering and bright. But she could only think of him.

Andromache held her baby to her chest. She rocked lightly back and forth. She watched with much tenderness in her eyes as the boy started to close his eyes. He too, had a rough day, even though he was much too young to know what was going on. He seemed to have noticed the missing presence of his father. Hector. The thought of her husband brought a shining tear to her face. She prayed that Hector would give her strength, for their son, for Helen, for Briseis, for her people.

He is dead. I can feel it. Helen thought to herself. Even though Andromache had tried to soothe her in saying that he might still be alive, she knew in her heart that he was gone. He is dead and it is all my fault. Everything that had happened up to this point is my fault. Shaken, she remembered the panic on the people's faces as they ran, with no where to run really, when everywhere they turned there were Greeks, ready to strike them down. I had wiped out an entire city, she thought miserably. How could she live with this guilt? She wanted to throw herself into the river. She stood and walked slowly to the edge of the water, but as she prepare to step into it she heard quiet sniffings. In the distance Briseis's thin form was barely visible. Helen backed away from the water. She needed to be there for Briseis. All was not lost. Yet.

A/N: I hope you like this story. I know it was a bit bizarre at the beginning, but I needed to inform everyone what exactly was going on. Who was dead and who was not. I will update soon. So long,